


We're Not Bad People

by suaviter



Series: Gabriel [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout 4
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Child Soldiers, Gen, Post-Sarah Lyons Era, the kids aren't alright
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 10:53:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10717968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suaviter/pseuds/suaviter
Summary: We just come from a bad place.(a.k.a. 12-year-old Arthur Maxson gets his hands bloodied.)





	We're Not Bad People

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 한국어 available: [우린 나쁜 사람들이 아니야](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11015577) by [suaviter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suaviter/pseuds/suaviter)



> \- From Proctor Quinlan's terminal entries about Arthur Maxson: "At age 12, while on a training project, he killed two Raiders and saved the squad that was supposed to be escorting him." 
> 
> \- I know Gabriel is a boys' name, but I just couldn't get over how pretentious 'Gabrielle' looked for a post-apocalytic wastelander, with that extra 'le' and all. 
> 
> \- Revised from a previously uploaded (& now deleted) draft.

 

 

Sprinting down flights of stairs to the B-Ring med bay, she finds him sitting alone on the bed. Back ramrod straight, clenched fists lying on his lap, eyes wide open but unseeing.

"Hey, kiddo," she whispers. Arthur blinks as his eyes slide into focus.

"Oh," he says with a slight jolt. "Oh, I wasn't expecting you."

He regards her for a second; her helmet hair and dusty armored getup, the rifle still slung over her shoulder. "I assume you've heard the news," he states the obvious and promptly goes back to staring at the wall, as if embarrassed at the insipidness of his observation.

"That's right. Kodiak briefed me." She gives him a quick once-over. He smells of disinfectants, has a purple bruise blooming across his left cheek and a thick patch of gauze is taped on his forehead just above his left eyebrow, but he's got nothing that doesn't look like it'll heal after a few days. "You alright?" she asks nevertheless. 

"Perfectly," he says quickly, and then shrugs. "Bit of nausea, I guess, but Scribe Peterson said it would pass." 

"It's either blood loss or too many stimpaks. Which one do you think is it?" Gabriel asks, frowning and only half joking. "I'd bet caps on overdose, if all those empty syringes I'm seeing are anything to go by." She throws a quick glance at the small trash can at his bedside. "I think you may have more antibiotics than blood running in you right now."

"I am pretty sure it's neither," he says, a huff of laughter escaping him at her facetiousness. "This one here," — he gestures at the bandage on his head — "probably looks far worse than it really is. It's just a cut. And while the scribes did pump me full of God-knows-what, saying they couldn't risk an infection and whatnot, they had the wits about them to ask me how much I weighed before giving me the shot."

She smiles at this and settles into a chair next to the bed without a word. The kid never liked having people fuss over him. She can picture the scowl he must have had on his face while the scribes were treating him. 

"Did you speak to Knight Langley on your way? Knight Brooks?”

"Not yet, though I'm told Brooks will make a full recovery. Langley may have to switch to a desk job, but it could have been much worse."

“Her leg. I thought it might… What’s the prognosis?” he asks, sobering instantly. ”Tell me,” he adds when she hesitates to answer.

“Compound fracture of the tibia — shinbone, ” she says, concluding that a white lie wouldn’t do him any good. “Severe vascular trauma. The soft tissues were mangled beyond repair and ran the risk of infection and necrosis. The leg had to be amputated. I hear the surgery went well and we’ll get her a prosthetic, but it’ll be months before she can walk again.” 

Arthur looks crestfallen.

“I — I'm sorry to hear that," he says after a moment.

"I'm sure she's grateful to be alive at all. To you."

"Yes, but…"

“She knew the risks involved with being a soldier. There’s nothing more you could have done.”

His shoulders slump.

“You’re right, of course. There’s no shame in an injury earned in battle. Maybe I am being unreasonable,” he says, deflated. “Is there any way she’d be able to continue doing fieldwork, at least? A way to offer assistance in mobility? Perhaps we could make use of power armor frames?”

She gives it a thought.

“We could, technically. But,” — she winces. She hates being a bearer of bad news — “for the frame to be of any practical use on the field as an alternative to standard prosthesis it would require a level of neural calibration that is, frankly, beyond us right now. You know we don’t have the resources to commit to such projects, with the surge in super mutant activity and all.”

He lapses into silence. She doesn't try to gauge what's running through his mind or urge him to speak, lets him take his time; she knows the boy well enough to recognize the look on his face when he's trying to figure out how best to word his thoughts. She's about to pour herself a glass of water when he says:

"Gabby?" 

"Yes, Arthur?"

"Can I ask you something?" 

"'Course." 

“You consider yourself a soldier, right?”

“I guess I do. Like everyone else here.”

“A soldier. As in you fight — and kill — for a living.”

“Well, when you put it like that… There are plenty of other things we do, as you very well know. But — yeah, sure. That’s part of the job description.”

"Then do you…" He worries his lower lip between his teeth for a moment before finishing the question. "Do you remember the first time you killed a man?"

She sets the glass down and considers the boy before her. So this is what he was getting at. This is what he must have been thinking about before she came in. She realizes she probably should have expected it, given the circumstances. Maybe she had, if her complete lack of surprise at the turn this conversation had taken is any indication.

"I do." Everyone does, she resists adding.

"What was it like?"

She lowers her posture a fraction to look him in the eye. It's clear to her what he needs; he needs to talk about it to someone, get it out of his system. If she's going to be that someone, she'd rather hear the undiluted version, before he's had a chance to compare notes with anyone. 

"I'll tell you if you tell me first."

He looks uncertain.

"You already know how it all went down. We were ambushed and —"

"Yes, but something tells me what you want at the moment is to talk, not to listen. Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong." 

When he doesn't, she continues, her tone gentle. "I'm not looking for a summary or a mission report. And I doubt you were looking to give me one."

He begins talking after a moment's hesitation. She listens without commentary. As she does, she thinks this is working for him, this little talking session of theirs; it's helping him process it all and put it in perspective. He begins slowly, demurely, with his eyes downcast, but as he progresses he begins to grow more animated, his voice taking on a strange intensity. He even attempts a bit of humor now and then.

"— So I managed to shoot one and ran out of bullets after that. Luckily the last one didn't have a gun either and for a second I was just standing there staring at him charging toward me with this ridiculously long machete in his hand, before I remembered that I had a combat knife on me, too. I ducked when he took a swing at me with the blade and closed in on him to cut him in the thigh. He yelped and he dropped his machete as his hands went to his bleeding leg. He was hollering 'you little shit, you fucking son of a —' (I'm sure that's what he said, Gabby.) and he tackled me to the ground. I dropped my knife when I fell and God, I was sure I was gonna die. He punched me in the face once or twice and then apparently he'd changed his mind about how he was going to kill me and began to choke me, both hands around my neck. I was flailing and thrashing and kicking and that's when my hand met the knife I'd dropped on the ground. I almost cried in relief — or maybe my eyes were just tearing up because I was on the verge of choking to death, I'm not sure — and as soon as I felt out a bare spot in his waist I took the plunge. There was a moment where I thought no, it wouldn't go in, the knife wasn't sharpened enough, but then I was knuckles-deep and my hand was soaking wet with something warm and slippery. I heard a small gasp and felt the mass of his body turn into dead weight as he bled out on me. I twisted the knife as I pulled out, just like I was taught, and that… was the end of it."

There’s a wild look in his eyes and she knows what it is, recognizes it from herself in a memory that's not distant but feels like it's from a lifetime ago.

She was nineteen. She had come face to face with Officer Stevie Mack a mere few meters from the Overseer's office with no room to backtrack and no way out but forward. She had pulled out the 10mm Amata had given her, the alien weight shaking in her hands. She was screaming _back off, back off right now or I'll pull the trigger I swear to God_ — and he'd said with a leer in his voice, _you'll never do it, little miss prissy-pants. Shooting to kill ain't nothing like can-shooting with daddy's BB gun._ He'd stepped closer as if to prove his point and she'd said, pleading, _I'm serious, this is a last warning_ , and he'd said _hey, you know what? Lemme show you how it's done_ and she'd seen his hand moving to where his gun was and next thing she knew she'd done it. The gray wall behind where he had been standing was painted red and white and his jaw was unhinged, hanging open like he couldn't fucking believe it. Hell, she couldn't believe it. How could something so taboo be so… _easy?_ She didn't remember most of her way out from then on; not much more than the exhilarating rush of near-omnipotence and the constant chant of _I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm not dead_ that was almost but not quite drowned out by the sound of blood roaring in her ears. 

"How did you feel?" She asks, and somehow she can guess what the answer would be with an uncanny certainty. Suddenly his face falls and the guilty expression — his initial reluctance to speak wasn't because he was shy or too modest to boast about his exploits, she realizes, it was because he was ashamed — returns. He seems to realize that he'd gotten carried away. She can tell he's regretting it.  

"Thing is," he says in an almost-whisper, "what's strange is… it didn't — I don't — feel _terrible_."

He rubs his hands together.

“I thought maybe it’s because they deserved to die, because they bring nothing that’s good to this world, because they hurt people I care about, because I hate them for it.

"But even so, am I not supposed to be, you know, at least a little horrified? I had blood on my hands and everything, but I don’t think I’ll be seeing any damned spots on them anytime soon."

He stares down at his clean palms.

“All those books I read made such a big deal out of it, I thought —"

"How did you feel?" she repeats. Now she feels like she's the one who needs him talking, like she simply must have him confirm her hunch about his response.

"Relieved," he sighs. "Excited. Potent. Like I finished an assignment that I'd put off for too long. All of these things. But most of all, just… relieved."

 _Oh, don't I know it,_ she thinks mirthlessly.

"Is it wrong to feel like this?"

"No." She replies a little too quickly and too decisively than she means to, but when she sees the look of utter relief that fleets across his face she doesn't regret it. 

"I think…" She hesitates. What should she tell him?

A selfish part of her wants to say: _I know exactly what you mean, I still feel that way when I do it, it's only natural for people like us._ But she can't do that, can she? It's not right. To be so unaffected, even invigorated upon the act of murder — it goes against every kind of moral code she's been taught since birth and she knows it. This knowledge shames her to her core and — of course she doesn't like feeling ashamed of herself but — it's a good kind of shame, isn't it, the kind that keeps her human.

She doesn't want to feed him the 'you only acted in self-defense so it's okay' rationale either. It's inappropriate and hypocritical; he isn't asking for forgiveness, and he's definitely going to kill preemptively in the near future. It's what he's being trained for. To imply otherwise would be dishonest; she knows this, he knows this.

She wishes desperately she were wiser, wishes she could be the mentor he needs, someone who knows exactly what to say in this sort of situation. It was only after Sarah's premature death that she took over as de facto guardian of the boy. She had stepped out of the conference room where they'd been trying in vain for days to settle the matter of a successor to get a breath of air and found him loitering in the corridor outside.

"Hello, Squire Maxson," she'd said and he'd jumped in a way that would have been comical if it wasn't so pitiful.

"Sentinel," he'd greeted her, back snapping into a respectful straight line. She'd wrinkled her nose at his formality.

"I told you, I don't bite. No need to be so uptight."

"I'm sorry. It's just that… After she's been gone, I don't know where I'm supposed to be."

What had she been thinking? She still isn't sure, to this day. She was barely an adult herself and in no way qualified to take care of another child. But with everything else going on, no one seemed to have the time or attention to spare for the now-orphaned boy, and this was a condition that she was all too familiar with. How old was he? Eleven? Twelve? It stung that she also had forgotten all about him amidst all the chaos. She of all people, she thought — still thinks — should know better than to neglect a kid in favor of taking care of "important business." 

"Squire. Arthur," she'd said before she could stop herself.

"Yes?" 

"Your guardianship. It'd passed down from Owyn to Sarah, right? From Elder to Elder."

"Yes, ma'am. But it's unclear now as to whom—" 

"Then aren't I next in line right now? I am the Sentinel. Well, as of yet, anyway. I don't know if I'll get to keep the position. I think Sarah intended to ease me into the job personally, but that's not happening now. Obviously." 

"They won't demote you," Arthur had said suddenly, with more force behind his words than she could've believed possible in his current state. "Demotions never happen unless there's a good reason. And you're a hero. A lot of people look up to you. I know I do." 

She'd blinked at his earnestness. "Hey, thanks," she'd said, strangely gratified by the boy's words. "Anyway, what I was saying was, maybe you could squire under me?"

Arthur's eyes had gone wide at her words. "Are you saying…?"

"If the new Elder says you can't I'll pass it onto… No, we'll just make it unofficial, shall we? But if you don't want to, of course—"

"I'd like that," he'd said, cheeks flushed. "I would be honored, Sentinel." 

She had told him that day to come to her for anything; to talk, to read, to tinker, to walk, or even just to spend time together in silence. And although it ended up being more of a paper agreement because she had her duties which took her away from the Citadel more often than not and he had a team of instructors who worked him like slavers every other day, she took no small amount of pride in the part she was able to play in adjusting him to a life after Sarah. 

Not a year has passed and she thinks he's already come a long way from being that jumpy little slip of a boy. He's talented, in more ways than one, and she fully expects him to be made a Knight in three or four years, tops. 

Maybe it's all for the better that he's had his first run-in with death sooner than later. Gabriel knows Owyn had been worried about the psychological implications of being groomed to be a killer, talking about wanting to provide the boy with a more "normal" childhood, and she wouldn't disagree with him exactly, but Arthur wouldn't be sitting here before her — a little unwell perhaps, but very much alive — if they hadn't taught him how to stab a man to death, would he? It may not be a pristine set of morals that they're instilling in him, but at least it's a mindset that keeps him alive. 

"Arthur, I think…"

She swallows to keep her voice from cracking. Gabriel gets the uneasy feeling that she may be making a terrible mistake here, although she doesn't yet know what it is. She's powerless to stop anything because she's unable to divine a better course of action now — at this moment in time, not in hindsight. This isn't a feeling that's new to her, and it's exhausting on so many levels. 

"…I think we live in a different world from the people in your pre-war books. Let's leave it at that." 

Arthur gives her a thoughtful look. 

"So the rules don't apply to us? That doesn't sound like something you'd say. Awfully convenient.” 

She stifles a sigh — irritated and appreciative in equal measure — and instead gives him an affectionate pat on the shoulder. The boy's too clever for his own good sometimes. "Maybe I like convenient."

He almost snorts. "You don't. Nothing's easy or straightforward for you."

She raises an eyebrow. What had she done to give him that impression?

"There's a lot you don't know about me," she says softly.

He seems to consider this. "I guess that's true," he nods after a moment. "I'll think on it some more." 

"You do that," she says, withdrawing her hand. "Oh, and one more thing."

"Yes?" 

"What you did today was brave, but also reckless as hell. You shouldn't put yourself at risk like this again." 

He's defiant all of a sudden. He's too proud to cross his arms and pout, but she thinks he would have done it if he were just a year or two younger.

"I survived, didn't I?" he says.

"Through sheer luck. Not only that, it goes against protocol. Didn't Langley and Brooks tell you to run, Squire?" 

"I think I remember, but —" 

"No mission's worth dying for, Arthur," she says, and she cringes inwardly at the pure hypocrisy of her words as she says them. 

He must have picked up on it, because he says, tilting his head sideways in confusion: "But I thought you said you were proud of your father. For giving his life for the cause."

Not to mention my own near-suicide at the Memorial, she thinks, thankful that he at least has the decency to not rub that, too, in her face. "It's not the same," she says and her voice rings hollow even to her own ears. "All I'm saying is, you shouldn't throw your life away for nothing." 

He actually narrows his eyes at her. 

"Two lives are not _nothing_ , Gabby." 

"I'm not insinuating anything of the sort. But there's a difference between —" 

"I don't get it," he says, obstinately. "You do realize what you’re saying now is incongruent with wheat you said earlier about Knight Langley being aware of the risks involved? You either do it or you don't. Where do you draw the line?" 

She finds she's at a loss for words. She _could_ make an argument against his accusation of double standards and win. She knows her logic in itself is sound; as fine as it is, the line between recklessness and bravery does exist. But — she’s startled to realize — she doesn’t want to argue it. It’s because she knows what the really honest answer would be: 'yes; I have double standards when it comes to you.’ She wants him safe, more than she wants other members of the Brotherhood safe. She thinks she’s come to feel personally responsible for him. Such partiality for a specific individual is selfish and unbecoming of a commanding officer, she knows, but there it is. This incandescent young thing that reminds her of herself sometimes — she doesn't want to watch it die. 

He keeps talking, taking her silence for concession ( _"I put my life on the line and that resulted in saving myself and two others. Surely there are instances where risking one's life is the best, if not the only, way. Not that I'm planning to actively try to get myself killed but there must be_ _—"_ ) and his voice carries that trademark fervor of his that she thinks some might call magnetic someday. Arthur was a boy that felt strongly about everything. She used to chalk it up to him being young, but was she — or any other children at the Vault for that matter — ever like him? She isn’t sure nowadays. As she's watching him a thought — no, a premonition — comes unbidden to her:

_He will die young._

Suddenly she knows this like she knows during battles where a fired bullet will be in a hundredth of a second; it's just that this one comes with a slightly longer timetable. One day he'll embark on a wonderfully stupid crusade of sorts and he'll be gone before she's ready for it. Like Dad. Like Sarah. Just like those two people that she’d loved and had grown to love. He’s one of those people who are just meant to burn out faster than others.

A part of her screams _no, not_ again _, I want out_ but she also knows that resistance is futile — she just has to let things run their course.

“…Gabby?”

He calls her. He looks worried; the turmoil in her head must have found a way to her face. She shakes her head once and wills herself to give him a smile.

“Don’t fault me for being afraid to lose more, Arthur,” she says, as honestly as she can.

“Um,” he says, most ineloquent she’s seen him in a long time. She doesn’t offer clarification, trusting him to figure out what she meant on his own. He does soon enough, and it’s a wonder to see his ears turn bright red, as though he’s a little embarrassed. 

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he stammers. “It didn’t occur to me — you must have been worried.”

“I was,” she says, finding as she does that she really means it. “I was glad to see you alive and whole.”

“I… uh… appreciate it,” he says quickly. “But you really shouldn’t. I think I have a knack for this; I won’t die so easily. I’ll train hard and become the best Knight there is, I promise.”

 _Sarah was the best soldier there was_ , she thinks, but doesn’t say it. Instead she just says: “you better, kiddo.”

Gabriel expects Arthur to be accompanied by better chaperons when going out on field training from now on, after today's incident. Maybe it'd be herself; she counts among the most efficient assets available in the Citadel's arsenal, after all. She decides she would do her damnedest best if it comes to that. She knows it very well could be in vain, but still. She wonders briefly if Sarah had felt like this when she'd begun training him at such a young age.

"Arthur — next time you're engaged in hand-to-hand combat, crush their wrist with the heel of your boot."

She doesn't waste time.

“All right," he says. "Show me sometime."

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I like to think the Lone Wanderer and young Arthur bonded during & after the events of Fallout 3. They have a lot in common, if you think about it; they're both orphans, feels/felt the weight of their parents' legacy very keenly, were precocious kids, etc.


End file.
